


RDC5 ficlets

by TiggyMalvern



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-22 05:44:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17657021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiggyMalvern/pseuds/TiggyMalvern
Summary: I'll be posting ficlets that I wrote for the Richard Armitage and Mads Mikkelsen fanzines they were given at RDC5, (the After the Fall ficlet zine piece will be separate so that it can be tagged correctly for the collection). One is about Francis Dolarhyde, one's a Hannibal/Hannigram piece.





	1. Become the Beast

**Author's Note:**

> This one is super short. Written for the insanely beautiful Richard Armitage fan collection that he was presented with at RDC5.

Everything burns.

Fire aches and strains through the muscle of his thigh, searing his body and flaring into his brain as he holds himself, an unspeakable heat begging him for release, and he holds and holds, pushing deeper into the flame. It liquidates his flesh, forces fluid through the stretched layers of his skin, his inner self squeezed out to trickle over him when he lifts his heels, weakness compressed into sweat that flees beyond his body and drips impurity to the floor.

Embers seethe along his spine, scratch arcs and curves within his shoulders, his back, his glutes, the incessant itch from the image blooming over him. Scabs crack and peel away, the layers of his own skin shed, reptilian, as he grows further into the glory of the dragon.

The dragon’s vastness cannot be limited by human frailty, by fatigued muscles and the flaws of trapped, swollen tendons. To become the dragon, he must become worthy of his power.

His hands clench, the ache cresting into scorching heat as he grips and lifts, the vessel elevated by his own strength, fingers compelled into the power of crushing claws by the force of his will.

Everything burns. His body, his mind, and soon, the dragon’s fire will engulf the world.


	2. The Waiting Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal begins his incarceration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ficlet was written for the Mads Mikkelsen fanzine that he was presented with at RDC5. Manapotion was kind enough to beta it at short notice.

The door closes behind him.

The handcuffs are removed from his wrists through the bars and feet tap away along the corridor, trailed by lingering, empty echoes. After all the time being handled, inspected, sampled and interrogated, he has space.

He is finally alone.

The space he has is small and caustically familiar. The painted bricks in seaweed and oatmeal, the high frosted window offering sickly illumination and no view onto the world. The bare metal frame of the bed and a mattress of uncertain but assuredly unpleasant provenance. 

It holds no appeal, yet he has only to close his eyes and the barriers shift within his mind, Will rising to his feet beyond them. Will stepping forward to meet his eyes, staring fathoms deep into Hannibal; their first moment of truth, here within these walls, an icy clarity unfettered by illness or deceit. A vicious beauty on full display.

A tremor through his muscles, a mental plunge through a hole to the floor below, and Will is a shadow against the backdrop of his house, armoured behind rings of tortoiseshell and glass, his face masked in the flashing glare of reflected lights.

Hannibal’s eyes open and he is standing, his knees dry, the merciless sting of ice and wind gone from his skin.

He is alone and limited within this vault, this trap of his own choosing.

He won’t pace. He’s not an animal and there is nowhere to go.

At some point he must devise an exercise regime suited to his current circumstance, utilising whatever limited facilities are available, but he can take a day to assess.

His new attire fits poorly, the cheap polycotton scratching at his skin when he sits delicately on the edge of the bed. Hannibal prefers his fabrics selected for comfort and woven in purity. He sets no importance on religious decree, but in this particular instance the book of Leviticus was not in error.

His choice will require some… adjustments. At least in the short term. He’s sure he can arrange a situation more suited to his status with careful application of his skills and sufficient time. And he will have plenty of that. 

He’s under no illusions. Will is bitter and vicious and determined. Those qualities ensure his forgiveness will not come quickly. 

They sit once more before the Primavera, Will bloodied and battered and implacable, soft laughs and affectionate smiles drawn in broad charcoal strokes over murderous intent.

Oh, he will be worth the wait.

Hannibal drifts, and remembers, and lives.

He lives in the Baltimore office with Will seated in the chair opposite, or perched with his hip against the edge of the desk, speaking of murder and of the melting and waxing fixtures of his mind. He lives in the firelit repose of his dining room as Will meets his eyes above the rim of a glass or parts his lips to peel the meat from a fork. He lives in the vaulted atrium of a museum, the clawing skeleton of a long-dead creature strapped into new skin, soaked in the blood of a fresh kill, an opportunity presented and taken and so long anticipated.

He lives.

There are footsteps now, outside his mind-space, harsh on concrete and reflected between walls, intrusive and impossible to ignore. Soles that tap lighter than the boots of the guards and slightly uneven, a gait never flawlessly restored.

A whiff of cologne, distasteful and familiar, the top notes too sharp and citrus with excessive musk at the base – a brand whose marketing speaks of success and influence, and whose use speaks of deficiency and frustrated aspiration.

Hannibal has a smile curled at the edge of his lips when he opens his eyes. 

Time to go to work.

“Hello Frederick.” He only tilts his head and doesn’t bother to stand. “Have you come to discuss your book?”


End file.
